The State of the Nation
by retired-fangirl
Summary: The United States of America is floundering, and so is Alfred F. Jones. Warnings: bulimia and my personal cynical views.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: My take on a Hetalia eating disorder fic. I'm not sure where or if this will go anywhere, but let me assure you, if it does, England will be very much involved.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia; I am not creative enough to think it up.

...

It's an ache he denies, hides from, represses, because _nothing_ is wrong.

The economy is in the toilet; his dinner is there too, splattering the remnants of greasy clumps of beef and white starch of the burgers he loves so much as vomit soils toilet water. Public opinion is at an all time low and dropping as more and more immigrants tout the praises of their native countries, but, then again, his self esteem plummets every time he gives in to this. The national debt is nearing twenty trillion US dollars and rising two billion every single day, but Alfred, the embodiment of America and everything that is so glaringly wrong, is swiping his gold backed debit card like his funds are unlimited—besides, he'll stop binging tomorrow.

Just like he'll stop purging tomorrow. Why do today when he can get by on a daily cycle of guilt and reprieve as he stuffs down his problems, one McDonald's meal at a time? If all socially acceptable coping mechanisms fail, he will just puke it back up. It'll be like not eating at all (tooth decay, heart arrhythmia, possible death: all consequences conveniently forgotten in the post purge bliss of electrolyte imbalance). Instead America nearly floats as he exits the cubicle, high on the emptiness of binging and barfing.

Another world conference, another round of slams at his country, at him, because it's always easy to point the finger at the superpower, another hasty departure to the bathroom, another close call as he hears the muffled sound of the other nations leaving the conference room as he washes away the sick from his hands. There, all good, new, and soap scented denial. Come next world meeting, he'll be in a healthier place; he won't miss the last fifteen minutes forcing the laws of nature in reverse. Just like last month, and the month before, and before that all the way back to the late 1960's...


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I was not expecting the overwhelming amount of favs and alerts guys. Thanks so much! And to anon who left a review: Yes, I will be updating this. I have no idea where it's going, but here's something!

...

He's sick. Again.

Fleetingly he envisions a not-so-distant past, less than an average human's lifespan, himself and England, positions reversed as England sneezes and sniffles and fretfully tosses and turns in an ill state. He remembers _ignorance_.

Alfred is well aware of the nature of a cold now. Presently he's stuffed up and generally miserable even as he shovels down another tasteless burger. He hates himself that much more with each soppy, greasy bite that generates various glances of disgust and disapproval from the respective countries, sans Japan, who is, well, too polite to visibly reveal his inner thoughts.

Instead, he inquires on Alfred's health.

"How are your people reacting to your redesigned nutrition program?"Japan is, of course, questioning the handful of fries Alfred uses to blot at a mini puddle of grease from his burger wrapper. Some of the western nations snigger at the carefully composed queries about the Choose My Plate program.

Alfred waves a hand containing a large milkshake. "It's all about moderation". Alfred says breezily. He ignores the blatant laughter of England and Germany as he presents the newest data regarding nutrition amidst errant sniffles.

He coughs and sneezes his way through his speech, completing it with one last slurp of his shamrock milkshake. He coughs again, a prelude to a gag, and excuses himself before anyone else mocks his health/nutrition/obesity epidemic. His heart beats a pantomime in his chest and he can't quite catch his breath and it all boils down to this... It's like he forgets, the days stretching and elongating in a blur of soreness emanating from his jaw and the constant thrum in his chest: a damned reminder this-exciting and desperate-act is killing him.

If not physically, it's draining him, depleting his resources, shrinking his emotional wellbeing, but that's fine. Presently, in the here and now as his fingers tremble, that's a-okay.

A mixture of anticipation and relief is forcefully expelled as half digested and still slightly cool green sludge dribbles down his fingers, and he remembers-remembers the past, remembers the brink of the First World War... He closes his eyes and pictures himself, seventy years past yet barely younger intellectually, laughing (laughing?) over England's sick bed, bedside manner complete with one of his famed burgers. "What's a cold?" He's the boy who cried wolf, or some rot-or he's the idiot with his fingers down his throat, forcing out any iota of nutrition he managed to swallow.

But, he can breathe clearly: the cacophony of insults, his own and the other nations', silenced against the burning of his throat. He wipes the majority of vomit from his hands, flushes, and exits the individual stall to greet the overly large furrowing eyebrows of England.

Arthur narrows his eyes, setting his face into a pinched demeanor. Alfred wants to barf again (regardless of his empty stomach); instead he sniffs against a glob of mucus dripping down his sinus cavity. Yeah, he's sick alright.


End file.
